


Five W's and Two H's (The Second 'H' is for Home)

by TheWyldeWynd



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Connor is Adorable, Connor is also a Brat, Father's Day, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Haytham Being British, Haytham Being a Good Father, Sassmaster Kenway, all of the fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 14:32:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4183443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWyldeWynd/pseuds/TheWyldeWynd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a family is hard under the best circumstances... but it has its perks.  </p>
<p>...</p>
<p>Even if you do end up wanting to strangle said family from time to time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five W's and Two H's (The Second 'H' is for Home)

**Author's Note:**

> _Hey all! In the spirit of the holiday, I felt like putting something together that was purely warm, fluffy, a little bit tooth melting, and (hopefully) squee-inducing._
> 
>  
> 
> _To those of you who have read/are waiting with dwindling patience for the next chapter of_ A Little Problem _... I'm actually working on the next chapter right now, so you can expect an update anytime between next week and next year. And don't you feel confident in my ability to be closer to the former than the later. In the meantime though, please enjoy this kernel of pure Haytham & Connor father-son fluff! (I will also, eventually, get around to responding to your beautiful, beautiful comments. Please forgive, life is **evil.** )_
> 
> _To those of who have not read/are not waiting for/quite probably don't care about_ A Little Problem _... you totally didn't need to read the above paragraph. Enjoy this one anyway!_

“Who is this man with Ista?”

Glancing over the hamper in his arms, Haytham squinted at the photograph Connor was indicating, and immediately felt the urge to rush the boy off to the nearest optometrist. 

“Who is…? Connor, that’s _me_.”

The boy – his boy; his sweet, giant hearted, intelligent, respectful little boy – looked from him, to the photograph, to him once more, and twisted his face into an expression of pure disbelief. “It does not _look_ like you.”

If he stumbled a little at that and narrowly avoided running into a doorframe, he felt no shame for it. “What do you mean: _‘it does not look like me?’_ ” Former trajectory forgotten, Haytham pulled up beside his scion, an intermittent twitch running through one eye, “That picture is barely older than _you_ are, how does it _not_ look like me when it _is_ me and I’ve barely changed since then?”

“It just…” Connor shrugged his tiny shoulders, looking as though _he_ were the one who had the right to feel exasperated, “does not look like you.”

Trying to ignore how the intermittent twitch was becoming a full-blown spasm, and ignoring the small voice in his head telling him to drop the subject and move along, he stared down at the child. “And how, pray tell, _do_ I look?”  
…  
…

“Old.”

…

…

…

The boy made a satisfying enough squeak where buried under a mound of his own dirty laundry that Haytham felt completely justified and secure in his childishness.

##################

“What… is this?”

Turning the corner of the morning paper down just enough to get a proper line of sight on the boy, Haytham resisted the urge to sigh in anticipatory frustration. “The gory remains of the last child to disparage my cooking.” Childish though it certainly was, Haytham couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the look that got him, “It’s beans-on-toast, Connor, what does it look like?” The look only intensified and the sigh forced its way out, “It’s food, you eat it; and there’s no call to look at it – or me – like you’re expecting to be assaulted with a knife.”

From his vantage point – chin resting against the surface of the table, chair pushed far enough away that an immediate retreat could happen if deemed necessary – Connor narrowed his eyes in further suspicion before slowly turning his gaze back to the plate. After a long and rather awkward silence he tenuously picked up a fork and, even more tenuously, poked at the food in front of him. Then he poked it again. And again. And a fourth time. The fifth time his fork came in contact with the increasingly soggy bread Haytham barely managed to resist the urge to slam his knee against the underside of the table, just to see what would happen.

Shaking his head, and internally growling over how his son’s mere presence seemed to bring out a childishness in him that had not even existed when he actually was a child, Haytham flipped his paper up once more. “If you could just eat your breakfast without resorting to the usual dramatic pageantry, I would consider it a personal favor.”

“It looks like _death_.”

“True. However, so do you most mornings, and you don’t see me poking you with utensils.” And oh how he could _feel_ the glare trying to burn a hole through his paper. “Also, house rules are still in place and you’re not leaving until you eat it. So there.”

There was a short chorus of mumbled Kanien'kehá:ka that was almost _certainly_ impolite, accompanied by the all too familiar scrape of fork-on-plate. At long last, however, these sounds were replaced by that of slow and deeply reluctant chewing; which was, in turn, replaced by the sounds of rapid and extremely enthusiastic chewing.

Less than a minute later Haytham put down his paper long enough to slide his own plate – still half-full, because he was a very intelligent man with great foresight and thought to make himself extra – across the table, and managed to not smile _too_ smugly when Connor barely glared at him before descending on the British staple like an adorable anaconda.

If nothing else, he decided, at least the boy had the ability to appreciate _proper_ food.

##################

“When is Ista coming back?”

Eyes glued to the barely contained disaster zone that was his paperwork covered desk, Haytham sighed deeply. “Remarkably, asking that question five hundred times a day has _not_ changed the fact that she’s coming back on Thursday. Now stop kicking the wall, you’ll leave scuffs.”

He braced himself for the inevitable medley of whining groans, muttered Kanien'kehá:ka, and rapid fire thudding of tiny feet against undeserving window seat. When no such sounds were forthcoming…

“Connor?”

Peering over the top of his glasses, Haytham fixed his eyes on the unusual tableau before him. 

Connor, usually a tiny bundle of barely-to-un-restrained energy (when he wasn’t being the mortal avatar of scorn and disdain), was slumped listlessly on the window seat, his back and the side of his face pressed against the glass, staring out into the rain vacantly. At the question his eyes briefly flickered over to his father, before returning back to the window.

Sighing again Haytham let his pen fall to the table’s surface, removed his glasses, and – after a brief stretch that made far more bone creaking noises than should occur in a man his age – made his way towards the door. “Alright, come on.” He met the confused glance with a nod at the door, “Downstairs, let’s go.”

Shortly thereafter they were in the kitchen, Connor slumped over the kitchen table – confusion warring with melancholy – as Haytham busied himself at the stove.

The next few minutes were spent in varying forms of silence, punctuated only by the quiet clinking of cups and the eventual whistle of the kettle. Steadily pouring water into the pot, Haytham smiled as the familiar scent immediately wafted up, then – nestling the pot amongst the rest of the tray’s contents –headed towards the table.

Connor eyed him warily as he deftly arranged the tea service, suspicion increasing as a cup and saucer were deposited before him and refusing to decrease even when the plate of biscuits joined the cups.

“What are we doing?”

Glancing at his watch, Haytham poured the – now perfectly steeped – tea into their cups, humming softly in pleasure as the smell intensified. “Having tea.” He added a splash of cream to his cup and more than a splash to Connor’s, “It’s too late in the day to be a proper afternoon tea, but,” he set the boy’s china directly before him with a small flourish before taking his own seat, “better late than never when it comes to tea.”

Connor’s gaze, and subsequently the full weight of his displeasure, fell on the steaming cup. “I do not _like_ tea.”

He chuckled briefly, holding the cup by his face and savoring the aroma. “No, you do not like _American_ tea, which is perfectly understandable and gives me hope for you and your future.” He took a sip, humming in delight as he did so, “This, however, is _real_ tea, which I know for a fact you have never tried, so...” 

Sighing gustily – and still frowning like the human personification of a storm cloud – Connor picked up the cup and – muttering something that, for Hickey’s sake, had better not have been ‘poncey toff’ – followed his father’s example of blowing gently on the surface and took a reluctant sip.

He then demonstrated how yelping while trying to avoid spewing a mouthful of liquid across the table made quite an interesting sound, much to Haytham’s amusement. Instantly the boy’s eyes were on him, trying to look baleful and not quite managing, no doubt due to the lingering flavor on distilled joy on his tongue.

Haytham didn’t even try to hide his smile, or the chuckle that accompanied it, only raising one eyebrow in a nonverbal ‘I told you so,’ before taking another sip of his own tea, savoring the rich, chocolate flavor and warm undertones of cinnamon.

To his credit, Connor managed to maintain his self-control and keep glaring at his father for nearly twenty seconds, before the siren song of the tea overrode his adolescent pride.

It only took half of the cup before the fog of gloom surrounding the boy began to dissipate and, upon Haytham responding to being caught dunking a biscuit in his tea with a wink and a ‘shush,’ Connor was clearly fighting back a massive grin and rush of giggles.

Grin now firmly set on his face, Haytham merely refilled his boy’s cup, broke a biscuit in half and – after handing the larger half to Connor – showed him the proper way to enjoy a real cup of tea.

##################

“… Where is Charles Lee?”

“He left seventeen minutes ago, trying very hard to _not_ curse your name and existence to my face, so I’d say it’s safe for you to come out now.”

…

“He is really gone?”

“ _Yes_ , Connor, he is really gone. And since, despite what you think, Charles is not _actually_ the devil, I don’t think you need to worry about him materializing from the ether or any such thing. Now get out of the closet and drink your tea.”

…

“Thank you.”

“Mmmph.”

…

“Am I ever going to understand _why_ you hate Charles so much?”

“Because he is _**evil**_.”

“Funny, I’ve heard him say the exact same thing about _you_ ; and, so far as I’m aware, _he’s_ never resorted to biting.”

“Mmmrph.”

…

…

…

“How’s your tea?”

…

“Good.”

“Good.”

…

“Can I have a cookie?”

“I’m afraid I have absolutely no idea what you just asked.”

“Siiiiiiiiiiigh. _May_ I have a _‘biscuit?’_ ”

“Why yes, Connor. Yes you may.”

##################

“Why did you and Ista break up?”

He let his eyes fall closed at the question, cutting off the rather spectacular view of the night sky, and took a long breath. “Honestly? I’ve asked myself that question more times than I can count.”

“And?”

A wry smile tugged at his lips, and Haytham cracked his eyes enough to look over at Connor. “And I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to answer it.” He shook his head a little and sighed, “Not really, in any meaningful or truly accurate way, anyway. Maybe…” he sighed again, giving into impulse and rubbing one hand against his eyes, “maybe it was my fault, maybe it was hers, or both of ours.” He let his hand fall back to the rooftop and gazed back into the sky, “Maybe it was just one of those things that wasn’t meant to be.”

Connor made a tiny humming noise, pulling his legs closer to his chest and tucking his chin over his knees, eyes still fixed on the sky above them. “Do you ever think about getting back together?”

“Sometimes.” The admission was easier than he expected it to be. “Not that we ever will.”

From the corner of his eye he saw the boy fidget, though his large brown eyes remained fixed on the stars, “Why not?”

Sighing once more, he gave a rolling shrug, “Too much time passed, too many things said, too much water under the bridge… however you want to put it, it’s just… it wouldn’t work.” His little smiled turned a little mournful, “We’re very different people now, your mother and I, from who we were when we were together. And though I’ll always love her in a way,” the smile brightened a touch, “as I suspect she will me, it’s just that… it will never be _that_ sort of love again.” He ran a hand through his hair, a small chuckle slipping out, “And I suppose this is the point where I’m meant to say something like, ‘you’ll understand when you’re older’ but… well, honestly, _I_ don’t even understand it myself. Not really.” His gaze fell back to the boy, “Why the sudden curiosity?”

Connor shrugged tightly, shaking his head a little and still looking upwards, “No reason.”

Humming softly in response, Haytham merely looked back upwards and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“You…” Connor worried his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, “you had a chance for a better job, after you and Ista broke up. Back in England.” He fidgeted again, “She mentioned it once.”

Haytham nodded slowly, “That’s right.”

“But you… did not take it.”

“No. I didn’t.” He smiled softly, “I decided to stay here instead.”

The fidgeting was slowly turning into a steady tremble. “You could be in your country, your home. You could be rich and powerful, really _really_ rich and powerful. You could have your own firm.”

“True.” He let the world drawl out slowly, turning his head to look directly at the boy, “Though I’m not really sure what I’d do with much more money and power, and being a partner is hardly something of which to be ashamed.”

“I know. But…” _finally_ Connor turned his head slightly, eyes shyly meeting his father’s, “do you ever wish…”

“Hey.” Instantly his hand is on Connor’s shoulder, holding gently, “Let’s get one thing straight, here and now. Maybe things aren’t perfect and maybe they could be better in one way or another, because anything’s possible. But,” he turned himself fully towards the boy, his other hand reaching out to cup the side of his face, “I’ll tell you one thing that is the absolute truth: if I could go back in time and do it all over again, even knowing how much pain I would face, even if I knew there would be more or worse pain… I would make the _exact_ same choice because, Connor…” smile growing and softening all at once, he raised his hand to ruffle his boy’s hair, “there is nothing in this world that I want, and no place at all that I would rather be than right here with you.” And if any tiny, insignificant, detestable part of himself hadn’t meant that completely, the brilliant smile that lit up Connor’s face would have won it over instantly. “Now get over here.”

Connor yelped in shock as he pulled them over backwards, Haytham falling against the roof and pinning Connor to his chest, fingers digging into the boy’s tiny sides as he squealed in uncontrollable laughter and tried fruitlessly to squirm free of the tickle assault, until their combined laughter rang out over the rooftops.

##################

“ _How_ in the world…”

His jaw was hanging slack, eyes as wide as anatomy allowed, and brain short-circuiting like a mobile submerged in water. He probably looked like an idiot, but at the moment Haytham was far, far too preoccupied to care.

“What did… when did… you… the… but…” trying desperately to make sense of a world gone mad, his eyes flickered wildly about his kitchen. Or, rather, the _remains_ of his kitchen.

Quite frankly it looked more like a warzone at the moment, mysterious substances splattered over the floor, the countertops, the island, the table, the appliances, the cabinets, the _walls_ , and the… what in the _hell_ was stuck to the ceiling?! Whatever it was, it was just one small – admittedly bewildering and a little frightening – element in the maelstrom of chaos in which he found himself.

And there, standing the dead center in the room, was the seven year old architect of chaos himself. 

Almost certainly looking a little unhinged, Haytham locked eyes with Connor. _“How and why.”_

Looking up at him from behind a mask of red-and-gold swirled whiteish-yellowish gloop, the boy at least had the wherewithal to look abashed. “I… I was…” he fidgeted with his hands, starting to paw at the ground with one foot only to stop when he nearly unbalanced on the gloop saturated flood.

Reminding himself that filicide was a very bad thing – and not particularly wanting to leave his tiny patch of clean ground – Haytham barely restrained himself from crossing over to throttle his spawn. “You _were…?_ ”

Big brown eyes, now glistening a little, looked up at him from their place above a quivering lower lip. “Trying to make breakfast.”

…

“What?”

Connor now looked vaguely like he wanted to curl into a tiny bawl of misery and tears, and his voice was barely audible in the otherwise silent disaster area when he stuttered out, “For you.”

“But… why…” his mind, already driven to distraction and now unbalanced by the increasingly pitiful sight of his only child, raced desperately to understand what the boy had just said. So far as he knew, Connor’s culinary capabilities extended to bowls of cereal, the occasional microwaved plate or bowl of leftovers, the preparation of chocolate beverages that did not require the stove, the mixture of cookie dough, and the heavily supervised cutting of select fruits and vegetables. Actual preparation of an entire meal was not only completely out of the ordinary, it was something that had yet to be broached in any discussion about which Haytham was aware. To say _nothing_ of the fact that, thanks to the sudden heat wave, they had largely been subsisting on cold cereals and fruits in the mornings, so why Connor had decided to dive headfirst into preparing an entire – apparently hot – meal in the third week of June was anyone’s gu-

Oh.

“Oh.”

Connor was still looking up at him with wet eyes, absently tracing one foot in little patterns on the ground and making a quiet snuffling noise.

Sighing deeply, Haytham let his head fall into one hand, rubbing his eyes and forcing himself to calm down. “Alright. Alright, I get it.” Dropping his hand, then raising again to clap both hands, he looked up at the boy and managed a nonthreatening smile. “I’m not mad,” he forced himself to say and mean, “Let’s…” he trailed off in a hiss before shaking his head and, with a stabilizing breath, heading into the room, “let’s see if we can find a good place to start cleaning up in-”

Under other circumstances he probably would have heart the foreboding sucking sound before it was too late. As it was, his only warning was the sudden look of wide-eyed terror on Connor’s face before _something_ fell from on high, landing on the crown of his head with a loud _‘splat’_ and a rain of sticky wetness down his entirety, freezing him in place.

Connor stared up at him, eyes wide, looking as though he were about to run from the room in a panic, burst into tears before running from the room in a panic, or burst into a combination of hysterical laughter _and_ hysterical tears before running form the room in a panic.

He opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then sighed again. “There’s beans-and-toast on my head. Isn’t there.”

Swallowing hard, Connor managed to nod.

Sighing for the he-did-know-how-manyth time that morning, Haytham raised a hand to wipe the sticky mess of tepid beans and syrup from his face. For a long moment he stared at the substance on his hand. Then, in a moment of instinct driven madness, he brought his hand up and stuck two fingers in his mouth.

“Hmm…” tilting his head – which had the unintended but welcome side effect of de-toasting his head – he thought for a long moment, then glanced back at a shell-shocked Connor. “Cinnamon?”

Eyes comically wide, Connor nodded again, “Mmhmm.”

He nodded himself, “That’s what I thought.” Idly he licked the bean mixture from another finger. “You know…” He trailed off for a moment, before a tiny chuckle escaped him. Then, another. “It’s…” A series of chuckles followed, growing in intensity, and his clean hand flew up against his mouth. “It’s really not that ba-hahaha ha!”

He trailed off helplessly, a glimpse of Connor’s now utterly terrified face sending him over the edge into hysterical laughter. 

Giving in to impulse, Haytham dropped to sit cross-legged the gloop-saturated ground, waving Connor over while still laughing like a mad man. After a moment of wild-eyed shock, the boy’s lips twitched hopefully and he carefully made his way to his father, all remaining tension dissolving when Haytham pulled him into a massive, sticky hug.  
After several minutes of mad cackling they finally began to calm down, Connor nestled against his chest while Haytham gasped for breath and wiped tears from his eyes.

“Al- alright.” He gasped out at last, ruffling the gloop-soak mess – said gloop finally being identified as pancake batter – that was Connor’s hair. “We’ll clean up later. First, though,” he smeared bean-syrup on his boy’s nose, grinning at the yelp and swatting of tiny hands, “I don’t suppose you have any more of this that _hasn’t_ been plastered to either the ceiling or the human form?”

Giggling still, Connor extricated himself from the sticky heap and – after a few false starts and a narrowly averted crash into a barstool – retrieved a large bowl and two spoons from the countertop, which found a place between them on the floor.

“Raké:ni?”

Locking eyes with his son, Haytham grinned around a spoonful of beans, “Hmm?”

Connor grinned back, scooted around the bowl, and threw his arms around his father. “Happy Father’s Day.”


End file.
